


Chicago Lightning

by mishencockles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1920s!au, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Historical, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Other, Prohibition, Smuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:21:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishencockles/pseuds/mishencockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel, Gabriel, Balthazar and Anna run a good business of smuggling bootleg alcohol for Dean's speakeasy. Sometimes things go smoothly, sometimes, people get shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicago Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware Dean's use of mazel tov is incorrect but Dean's being extremely ironic, and also probably not having the best grasp of Yiddish.

”Damn it, you _idiot!_ ”

Castiel’s been called a lot of things in the span of just one evening. All very colourful variations of swears and pejoratives, one worse than the other. He thinks, somewhat distantly, that if his mother were here, she’d smack Gabriel twice down the head for each of them.

”What were you thinking?!”

Gabriel is furious, as much as he can be. Never outright angry, in that shouting, shoving, punching way some men would be; it’s a hard, simmering fury contained behind his eyes, in the twitch of his jaws as he takes on the look of a man trying very hard to swallow down a thunder storm. Castiel would be a little bit worried, if he wasn’t so distracted by bleeding out.

”Probably nothing at all” He hears Balthazar off to the side, the sound of his voice dimming with the blur of his surroundings.

He’s losing a lot of blood, he knows; can feel it gushing and spitting out of him in hot bursts, trickling quickly down his chest where it’s hungrily soaked up by his clothes. Even _if_ his senses were at their full capacity, the loud chatter of gunfire obscures most other sounds, anyway.

”We need to stop the bleeding” Anna says. He can’t really see her face right now but if he knows her right, she’ll probably yell at him later. ”Cas, sit up”

”I _am_ sitting up”

He must have been mistaken, as strong hands grab him by the arms, pulling him up to lean against the tree behind him. The force of it jars his wound, sending sharp, fresh pain through the dulled haze of the old one. Castiel feels more than hears the scream that pushes through his teeth.

”You deserved that” Balthazar says.

Underneath him the mud gives way, his thighs sinking deeper into the soil as the gunshots keep firing. There is a press at the hole in his shoulder, but it feels very faint now.

”How much ammunition do they have left?” He thinks he’s slurring, but can’t really muster up the energy to do anything about it.

Balthazar huffs. ”Don’t you worry about that. Just focus on not dying, think you can manage that?”

”I counted six shots from the left —” Castiel grabs his arm, wheezing now, the effort to speak proving heavier as time soldiers on.”— six shots, he’s using a revolver, if I’m not — not mistaken”

”For God’s sake, will you just shut up and let us handle it?”

”Anna’s out of rounds and the machine gun won’t last much — much longer either, and —”

”Cassie” Balthazar says very seriously, pushing back when Castiel tries to get up. ”We’ll _handle_ it”

”The Chopper Squad will run out soon enough” Gabriel says. ”I’d worry more about the heat and not the heaters”

He doesn’t sound quite as worried as Castiel thinks he should be, but then again, Castiel’s not really worried about the bullet in his shoulder, either. It could be the adrenaline, he supposes, but he thinks that for a gunshot wound, it’s going fairly well.

What’s important isn’t whether or not Balthazar is pressing against his wound with clumsy fingers, perhaps a bit intentionally. It doesn’t matter that the crates have been hit and that their money is, quite literally, running out in the sand. Or mud, to be precise.

What _is_ important, however, is that the bootleggers run out of ammunition before they do, that nobody else gets seriously injured and that, somehow, they manage to avoid any and all police interference. The latter might be easier though, Castiel thinks, as they’re far out on some dirt road in the middle of nowhere. The roads are twisted and hard to navigate, even if the sound of the gunfire isn’t muffled by the oaks.

If or, when, the police do show up, they’ll probably already be long gone.

”How much can we save?” Balthazar asks, instead, because he’s found after a few years that it’s always easier to ignore any of the Novak siblings, rather than arguing with them when they’re being particularly stubborn.

Castiel doesn’t think he’s being stubborn at all but then again he can no longer feel his mouth, and would probably keep arguing if that wasn’t the case.

”Seven, maybe ten crates” Anna shouts, further away now. Possibly closer to the truck than she should be. Another gunshot hits against something, a loud thunk followed by a pained drizzle. ”Make that nine”

Gabriel growls and the blurry silhouette of his body moves, out of Castiel’s line of vision, which is soon overtaken by distorted treetops as his head lolls back.

”That’s half his round” Gabriel says. ”When it’s out, that should be it”

”Hang in there, old boy” Balthazar squeezes his shoulder. He has the courtesy to pick the good one.

Castiel tries not to let his eyes close, but they’re feeling too heavy to fight, lead filling every inch of his body, weighing him down and slowly pressing him into the earth. The gunfire eventually stops, but he can’t figure if it’s because Gabriel had been right or if he simply can’t hear anything, anymore, save for the sluggish beat of his heart.

The rag soaks through. He feels the fingers around it tighten, imagining the trail the blood must make between them in cobwebs of red and he thinks, a bit tiredly, that if it stains Balthazar’s coat, he’ll never hear the end of it.

Voices become muffled, and all the colours of the forest slowly follow with them, like water sucked into a drain.

 

* * *

 

”You stupid asshole! You’ll be lucky if you can use that arm again!”

Castiel comes to somewhat harshly, dragged out of his unconscious state by more yelling. It’s only slightly less unpleasant than the gunfire — which is still ringing in his ears — and the voice that’s attacking him comes off nearly as hard as the surface he’s on. Castiel realizes, after more verbal onslaughts, from different voices, that he’s on a bar counter. Slowly he recognizes the shelves on the wall as ones that, just a few years ago, probably held whiskey and gin. Now they carry only soda drinks, glass bottles of liquids he’s never cared to inspect and rows upon rows of dust.

Of course, these shelves are just a decoy, and Castiel knows there are barrels of moonshine beneath the floorboards, stashed away in a damp basement with one, pathetic light bulb to reveal them.

Once he knows his surroundings, the rest of his senses kick into gear. Sluggishly at first, hazed by thick layers of pain. The wound in his shoulder burns hotly now, luring sweat to trickle down the length of his neck, pooling at the dip of his collar bone.

”I _told_ you not to go unprepared!” 

”Don’t patronize me, kid” Gabriel snarls. ”We’ve been at this gig for long enough. We handled it.”

” _Handled_ it?” He recognizes very slowly the sound of Dean’s voice, growly like a dog’s; roughened up by his anger as he spits it out with tight jaws.

He can’t quite tell, but he thinks the hand pressing down against the bleeding might be Dean’s, as well. 

”You nearly got him killed!”

”He nearly got himself killed, thank you. A feat he’s shown utterly capable of plenty of times by now.” His brother sighs. ”Really, Deano, I don’t know why you’re acting so surprised”

”Yeah, well, last time you didn’t carry him bleeding and delirious into my bar”

Gabriel makes an admonishing sound with his tongue, clucking it against his teeth.

”Dean, bars are illegal” he says sweetly. ”I thought this was an honest establishment for fine gentlemen looking for a good meal and a glass of milk. Kalcium’s important, after all”

”You’re lucky I have to keep your idiot brother from bleeding out or you’d be shorter than you already are”

Castiel can see the patterns in the wallpaper now. Ugly, sordid things, really; the place bathed in the typical brown, earthly tones of any other building in the area. But at the same time, there’s something very homely about the scuffed leather seats and the greasy ceiling lamps that, over time, he’s come to like.

”Break it up!” Anna shouts. Castiel can only guess how tired she must look, but judging by her voice, he can paint a pretty good mental picture. ”Stitch him up first, have your lovers’ spat later. Do you think you can manage that?”

”Hey, tell it to the bimbo, I’m just stating facts here”

He hears a low rumble from his side, crawling up Dean’s throat as the fingers around his wound tighten. The pain sparks up in a sudden, uninvited jolt and despite his best efforts, Castiel hisses.

”Oh, shit, Cas! Sorry, guy —” The grip loosens quickly.

Castiel’s tongue remains limp in his mouth.

”Is he still bleeding?” Anna’s voice comes closer.

In his peripheral, he can see the red of her hair. Off to the side somewhere there is the shuffling of feet, and he assumes it to be the sound of Gabriel pacing. He wonders how many else made it here, if anyone else got hurt, what happened to the crates; all questions pressing at the back of his throat but which can’t seem to make the final push through.

”Not nearly as much. We should still get the kit and patch him up as soon as possible”

”Well?” Gabriel claps his hands together. ”What are you waiting for? Chop, chop!”

”Alright, that’s it —”

” _Dean_ ” Anna sighs. ”You can kill one brother once you’ve saved the second, okay?”

Dean mutters irritably under his breath and Castiel’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline or just the general _Dean_ -like sound of it, but he finds it almost endearing. And annoying. If he had the strength he’d kick him off himself because he’d really like to get stitched up now.

”Fine” Dean growls. ”I’m going. Balthazar, take over ,will ya?”

 

* * *

 

The needle works quickly and efficiently, a little bit clumsy at times when it catches on his skin or the thread drags too roughly, but Dean’s hands work with the ease of practice. Castiel can tell by the tension in the room that he’s angry, can feel it in the stiffness of his hands, the sharp exhales that slap against his throat, but Castiel is used to Dean’s anger.

It’s not often it’s directed at him, but whenever it is he’s mostly able to handle it. It’s Dean’s disappointment he doesn’t like, and so far he hasn’t felt inclined to turn and see if his face is soured with it.

It’s hard enough to keep upright, even with the backrest of the chair digging into his spine. His shirt and waist coat are discarded in an uncaring pile on the table, soaked through with dark red, crusted brown and mud, tinged with the smear of moss. He’s ruined enough clothing by now to know a lost cause when he sees one. Which is a shame, because he rather liked that waist coat.

”I’ve been shot before” Castiel says, without meaning to, but the tense silence has hooked beneath his skin, dragging the words out of his mouth before he can think to stop them. They come slowly and heavily, still a bit tilted by the ending syllable, but Dean grunts like he understands.

”Save it, Cas”

His tone is sharp, but not necessarily in a way aimed at him, personally. More so his actions, his recklessness, which Castiel would argue wasn’t really recklessness as much as the mud slowing him down, and he’s bound to be shot once or twice throughout the journey. But he’s too tired to argue, so he simply doesn’t.

”You know” Dean pulls the thread just a little harsher than he ought to. Castiel keeps himself from wincing, jaws clicking shut in strain. ”Next time you might not get here in time for me to do this. Hell, you should’ve gone to a real doctor —”

”I imagine explaining the nature of my injury would be difficult”

Dean sighs. The breath rolls warmly across his skin.

”That’s what you get for breaking the law, I guess”

”If I didn’t break the law you wouldn’t be able to keep your business running” Castiel points out, matter of fact, eyes trained on the table. Dean huffs.

”Yeah, we’re all just a bunch of honest Joes, aren’t we?”

”Dean —”

”I’m done”

Dean rises from his chair quite abruptly, air gushing in to fill the space he leaves behind. It feels cold, causing goosebumps where it drags across Castiel’s shoulders.

Castiel turns to look at him, but sees only his back, the way his arms move as he tries to wipe the blood off his hands. Castiel winces as his shoulder aches with the movement, heat thudding rhythmically under the stitches when he rises.

” _De_ an” He says again, sharper this time.

The tight line of Dean’s shoulders sag, just a little, as he exhales.

”I can take care of myself”

”Yeah?” Dean turns to give him a tired look. ”Gotta be honest, Cas, if this is you  _taking care_ of yourself, then I don’t wanna be around when you don’t”

Castiel grimaces. ”You are being deliberately difficult”

”I’m difficult? Who bled on whose carpet just some hour ago?”

”The deal got compromised and we handled it. I don’t know why you’re being upset.”

”Up _set_?” Dean rolls his eyes, hand gesturing in short, angry movements. ”Gee, I don’t know! Could it be the bullet I just dug out of your shoulder? Or the blood everywhere? What if next time I’m digging it out of your damn head, you _moron!_ ”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, brows coming together in a disapproving frown.

”I don’t think the man running the speakeasy my family and I are trying to supply is in any position to lecture me about safety, nor call me a moron for something I didn’t choose to happen”

Dean rubs a hand down his face, wincing at the copper smell still clinging to it.

”Jesus Christ, you’re like a five year old”

Castiel’s chest expands as anger fills it; breaths huffed out sharply through his nose.

”I’m  _not_  the one being childish”

”Yeah, whatever”

”Dean”

But Dean’s already turning around, heading towards the backdoor, probably intent on slamming it in his face if he tries to follow. Frankly, Castiel is much too tired and in too much pain to chase him around like a distressed animal; it’d be better, he knows, to let him sulk for a while before making new attempts at discussing this. But he’s not sure why he even needs to defend himself, in the first place, because it’s not like Castiel deliberately threw himself in front of a bullet, or wasted half a supply run worth of bootleg.

”Dean, it was an accident. It happened. It might happen again, I don’t know for certain that it won’t, but…” He makes an awkward hand gesture with his good arm. ”I’ll try not to get shot again”

Dean glares up at the ceiling, but he’s stopped in his tracks and Castiel supposes that’s a small victory.

”However” Castiel says then, letting the irritation slink into his voice. ”I’m grateful for your help but I _am_ a grown man and I am fully capable of caring for myself, to the best of my abilities. Today was a mistake and I admit, an expensive one. But I don’t deserve to get lectured on what I already know. I’ve been doing this for a long time, Dean, and I’m no _child_ ”

Dean shakes his head, a sound caught in his throat that sounds half-amused, half-annoyed. A long moment of silence follows that, during which neither of them moves. Castiel sways a little, blinking away the exhaustion and dreams of a good night’s rest and a long, warm bath. Maybe even a shot of gin, if there’s any to spare.

Dean must read him better than he thinks, having grown accustomed to him now, these past months. To the little intricate movements of his face that pass so many other people by.

”Two fingers?” He says, just like that.

Castiel frowns, because he’s not sure they’ve really resolved anything. Dean’s tense like there’s something still churning in his gut, but the deepening of the crinkles around his eyes make him decide to let it go. For now.

”Three, please” Castiel says and sits down by the bar.

”Three fingers of giggle water, comin’ right up”

Dean reaches for the last of the stowaway alcohol, inconspicuously hidden in a brown, glass bottle. With swift movements and skillful wrists he pours a glass for the both of them, pushing one towards Castiel across the wood.

”Mazel tov, Cas”

He clinks his glass against Castiel’s own, and they drink them down in silence.


End file.
